Wind of the River
by nekomusume
Summary: Dornkirk has found one of the Crosque Clan and he devotes his time once again to harnessing destiny. Meanwhile Eleshea, Folken and Noriyori have plans of their own.....
1. Prelude: Gaea

Prelude: Gaea  
  
Picture a bluish-green planet full of lazy clouds. On this world it is a deep purple night, in the sky hang the two moons -- one is Earth and one is the moon we ourselves view. Shimmering stars glimmer in the sky and far away the brilliant planet Mars burns red. This is Gaea. A world parallel to our own.  
  
On Gaea live dragons, draconians, elves, fairies, beastmen, and of course human beings. But there are others present on this world, those who practice magic. Now I do mean little dinky tricks like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, I mean real magic. There are four forms of the magic practice; it is divided into wizardry, sorcery, telekinesis, and priesthism. Priesthism is magic used throw magical items such as enchanted swords, flying carpets, talismans, etc. Sorcery is raw magic such as throwing fireballs out of ones hand, but basically this is the magic that can alter reality. Wizardry practices magic that is definitely weaker then sorcery but doesn't alter the fragile wall of reality. Telekinesis is the physic power, most common and the only power that most beings are aware of.  
  
And it is said that sorcery and wizardry have disappeared.  
  
They didn't expect it back. They'd gotten rid of it.  
  
The only people who had been able to perform wizardry and sorcery were the people of the Crosque Clan, who were wiped out thousands of years earlier.  
  
That was a foolish assumption.  
  
The poetry of the Esidion people reminded them of how foolish of an assumption that was.  
  
"Many years ago in the kingdom by the sea, a man was fishing by a river.  
  
In the river he saw a golden glimmer.  
  
The river was quite shallow so he waded to the gold thing.  
  
When he reached there he bent over to pick it up and a hand grabbed his.  
  
The hands owner hand a light grip and he pulled up a little unsure, fearing to bring up just a hand.  
  
He pulled up a young girl with golden hair and greenish skin. She had lovely, delicate, golden wings and emerald green eyes. For a moment he thought he'd found a fairy, but she informed him immediately that she wasn't a fairy.  
  
'I am a Crosque.' Said she  
  
'I dance among the trees. I am a Crosque. The last among my clan. Thank you, sir, for saving me. I place my life in your hands.'  
  
The man smiled a foolish grin and threw his hands in the air.  
  
'Eureka! You're the answer! My plan will work now! I can do it! I can do it! I can harness destiny!'" 


	2. Der Träume – The Dream

1: Der Träume – The Dream  
  
No sky  
  
no earth - but still  
  
snowflakes fall  
  
-Hashin  
  
  
  
It rained.  
  
It rained and rained. The people of the Accursed City of Namasgong of Hnüuca watched the rain pour into the river – and then watched the river flood their homes from the tops of the trees that hadn't yet been struck by lightening. The flood didn't move around merely rose up inside the high city walls. The flood had already gurgled along the ancient riverbeds and overflowed and spread out in a lacework of gullies and rivulets.  
  
And it had finished that a long time ago.  
  
Ah yes . . . a nice light rainstorm.  
  
The rain continuously poured, thunder clapped loudly, and brilliant bolts of lightening flashed across the sky.  
  
Further rain ensued.  
  
Near the center of Namasgong a tall metal pole had been erected to repel lightening. It had never really worked. Atop the pole sat a girl who was quite comfortably reading a soggy book --- Now let us study the girl for a moment. She should be taken notice of. Not because she has flamboyantly purple hair which is her natural color by the way. Not because her eyes' irises are totally black and not because she's sitting atop a metal pole in a violent lightening storm –not getting hit—reading a book. But what is truly important about her is she doesn't die. For her that isn't possible. The girl isn't an undead. Her soul just can't switch worlds. It's not bonded to a body. She is flesh that doesn't feel a drop of pain. What you behold is a soul – that is solid, one that has been on Gaea for centuries.  
  
She closed the book and sighed, looking at her wrist. A dragon appeared on it.  
  
She grinned manically and blew on the dragon. A silver hourglass appeared. Inside ran black sand. She blinked.  
  
"And so must be my enhanced fortune . . ." She breathed. And disappeared.  
  
  
  
  
  
Tradition. A uneasy subject to discuss. Though for one thing everyone can in ways agree that it's repetitive to the point of boring if it goes beyond 100 years but if it goes that long it just can never be broken. Doesn't ever seem to happen. How do some traditions get started? If you think about it hard enough most traditions are actually quite idiotic and pointless ritual. Take the Rite of the Dragon. A custom that is only Fanelian. The Rite of the Dragon is a simple one. First of all your must be born into the royal family, and how that started nobodies quite sure. Now dissimilar to the custom in England where you're born into the royal family or married into it gives you immediate power – you have to do something to get power. On Gaea, to earn the Fanelian royalty you have to kill a land dragon. Of course nobody asked their opinion but the humans seem to have some false sense that dragons are big brutish beasts without a brain in their head and aren't really going to be missed. They're completely wrong. The dragons will miss themselves very much, and they're not as stupid as some would suppose just slower at catching onto ideas then others. Now who decided to make this tradition is also an unknown. Folken Lacour de Fanel really wanted to know so he could punch the man's lights out.  
  
There had been a large celebration, it hadn't been the greatest but things seldom are when your father, the king, has just been murdered. There had been a feast and the people had cheered and thrown confetti as he walked stiffly down the path in his shining silver armor. It gleamed with the polish Balgus, his swordmaster, had done. The birds chirped above and the sun shone through the gaps in the tree leaves. He whistled a cheerful tune his father had taught him as he wandered down the paths. But there was an eerie hollow feeling in the forest that he was having trouble ignoring. Or maybe it was him. Folken was scared. Land dragons were large, fierce, and dangerous. But of course nobody would ever send you out to slay the dreaded chipmunk and then expect to be crowned king of Fanelia. Still his senses were telling him not to go – like he was having a premonition that he was going to – he stopped his train of thought. That was the worst thought pattern and he had to stop thinking like that, he told himself. Worry would do him no good. He knew he would win and he would return to his mother, Varie, and little brother Van and there would be a king again. He knew he would win. He knew he had to win.  
  
  
  
A dragon lifted her head and looked around. She looked cautiously around. She could smell and hear something in the bushes. Seeing no apparent threat to her eggs she snorted and lay down again and cuddled the eggs keeping her eyes open, carefully watching the scenery intently. The noise and smell were there again, this time behind her. She growled loudly to warn the intruder. The noise stopped but the smell continued. She shifted heavily and turned around faces the east. She raised herself up and took a deep breath of the air, deep in her lungs. Her internal organs clicked together and she belched a large flame of fire in the direction of the intruder. The brush and trees incinerated at the blast of heat, revealing a tall man holding a large shield. He grimaced at her and pulled out his long sword. The two stood there gazing into each other's eyes. The dragon blinked and smiled – or at least Folken thought it was a smile. Maybe that was the way a dragon naturally is . . . in which case he wasn't -----  
  
The dragon lunged at Folken, who dodged and rolled to her side. He swung his sword out at her slicing her skin. She screamed in rage and whipped her tail at him. Folken flew a little ways before slamming into a tree. She came at him in rage and terror. He quickly reacted and ran forward to strike the dragon that was running blindly at him.  
  
Everything seemed in slow motion as Folken charged the dragon. And then suddenly he became conscious to the fact that this charge wasn't a good idea. At the last moment he turned ----------- the dragon snapped. Folken rolled into a ditch as the heavens opened up and the sky above poured rain down. Many emotions ran through his mind: shame, his fight with the dragon had lasted at the most two minutes, fear, the terror of death was gripping him as the dragon approached him, and pain, in is arm; or rather arm that was lying a foot away from him. Visions of his family flashed in front of him and the dragon drew back to breathe fire . . . . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
" . . .ken. . . . .Folken?"  
  
Folken opened his eyes. There was a bright light in front of him but he was surrounded by darkness. He reached up – so this was death. Something cold touched his arm. He drew it back and looked around. Everything was blurry. The blurriness turned sharper and he saw a face peering at him. He gasped.  
  
"Are you . . . . . God?"  
  
"God? Me? Aheheheheheheh . . . that's a good one young man."  
  
The voice had sounded so celestial when he first heard it but now it sounded cracked and raspy, he could tell the speaker had seen many years pass in front of it. The speakers voice became clearer, and he could tell it belonged to a man; a very old man but man still. Folken breathed out, in either a sigh of relief or pure terror he wasn't sure.  
  
"I'm not dead am I?"  
  
"Nope. Brought you back from the dead with me own hands!"  
  
Folken took this in. So he had died? But his body still felt attached, the dragon would have surely ---  
  
"But who saved me from the dragon?" He said suddenly.  
  
The old man cackled and smiled. Folken stared at the man, details were starting to come into his world again.  
  
He looked far older then any man he had seen. His white hair was curled in an interesting 1800's style and he had a long white beard that came down to his knees. The man's face was pale and he was in a wheelchair, his legs supported up in casts. Folken couldn't really be sure but the man didn't seem to be wearing any clothing. Folken's eyes once again stared at the man's pale body.  
  
"The gout keeps me from walking," commented the old man to Folken's.  
  
"Gout?" Asked Folken.  
  
The old man crackled the dry, musky laugh of his.  
  
"That's right," he said putting his finger in his whiskers and twirling it, "It's a blood disease that weakens my legs."  
  
Folken looked questioningly at the old man.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"My name is Dornkirk. You are in Zaibach . . . My empire."  
  
"Zaibach?! How. . ."  
  
"She seemed to think it was a good idea."  
  
Prince Folken blinked.  
  
"She? You mean the one who saved me?"  
  
"Well there weren't many others involved in your rescuing and the others were male . . . Though they were rather unnecessary."  
  
  
  
Oh sing little bird  
  
High in the trees  
  
To face the morn  
  
And the gentle breeze  
  
Pray naught for me  
  
For I am dead as they say  
  
And one must ask,  
  
Can the dead listen? 


End file.
